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UNIVERSITY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


ONYX    SERIES 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 


ONYX     SERIES 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 


By 
CAROLYN    WELLS 


NEW    YORK 

FRANKLIN     BIGELOW    CORPORATION 

THE     MORNINGSIDE    PRESS 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,   1913,  by 
FRANKLIN    BIGELOW    CORPORATION 


ONYX    SERIES 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 


THE  RE-ECHO  CLUB 

DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  RE-ECHO  CLUB 

A  RECENT  discovery  has  brought  to  light  the 
long-hidden  papers  of  the  Re-Echo  Club. 
This  is  a  great  find,  and  all  lovers  of  mas- 
terpieces of  the  world's  best  literature  will  rejoice 
with  us  that  we  are  enabled  to  publish  herewith  a 
few  of  these  gems  of  great  minds.  Little  is  known 
of  the  locale  or  clientele  of  this  club,  but  it  was 
doubtless  a  successor  of  the  famous  Echo  Club  of 
Boston  memory,  for,  like  that  erudite  body,  it  takes 
pleasure  in  trying  to  better  what  is  done.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  meeting  of  which  the  following  gems 
of  poesy  are  the  result,  the  several  members  of  the 
club  engaged  to  write  up  the  well-known  tradition 
of  the  Purple  Cow  in  more  elaborate  form  than  the 
quatrain  made  famous  by  Mr.  Gelett  Burgess: 

"I  never  saw  a  Purple  Cow, 

I  never  hope  to  see  one; 
But  I  can  tell  you,  anyhow, 

I'd  rather  see  than  be  one." 

The  first  attempt  here  cited  is  the  production  of 
Mr.  John  Milton: 


THE   RE-ECHO   CLUB 

tlcnce,  vain,  deluding  cows. 

The  herd  of  folly,  without  color  bright, 

How  little  you  delight, 
Or  fill  the  Poet's  mind,  or  songs  arouse ! 
But,  hail!  thou  goddess  gay  of  feature! 
Hail!  divinest  purple  creature! 
Oh,  Cow,  thy  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  though  I'd  like,  just  once,  to  see  thee, 
I  never,  never,  neverM  be  thee! 

MR.   P.   BYSSHE  SHELLEY: 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Cow  thou  never  wert; 
But  in  life  to  cheer  it 

Playest  thy  full  part 
In  purple  lines  of  unpremeditated  art. 


The  pale  purple  color 

Melts  around  thy  sight 
Like,  a  star,  but  duller, 

In  the  broad  daylight. 
I'd  see  thee,  but  I  would  not  be  thee  if  I  might. 

We  look  before  and  after 

At  cattle  as  they  browse ; 
Our  most  hearty  laughter 

Something  sad  must  rouse. 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  Purple 
Cows. 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 
MR.  W.  WORDSWORTH  : 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dee ; 
A  Cow  whom  there  were  few  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  see. 
A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Greeting  the  smiling  East 
Is  not  so  purple,  I  must  own, 

As  that  erratic  beast. 
She  lived  unknown,  that  Cow,  and  so 

I  never  chanced  to  see ; 
But  if  I  had  to  be  one,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me ! 

MR.  T.  GRAY: 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea ; 

I  watched  them  slowly  wend  their  weary  way, 
But,  ah,  a  Purple  Cow  I  did  not  see. 

Full  many  a  cow  of  purplest  ray  serene 
Is  haply  grazing  where  I  may  not  see ; 

Full  many  a  donkey  writes  of  her,  I  ween, 
But  neither  of  these  creatures  would  I  be. 

MR.  j.  w.  RILEY: 

There,  little  Cow,  don't  cry! 

You  are  brindle  and  brown,  I  know. 
And  with  wild,  glad  hues 
Of  reds  and  blues, 
You  never  will  gleam  and  glow. 
3 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

But  though  not  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
There,  little  Cow,  don't  cry,  don't  cry. 


LORD  A.  TENNYSON: 

Ask  me  no  more.    A  cow  I  fain  would  see 
Of  purple  tint,  like  to  a  sun-soaked  grape — 
Of  purple  tint,  like  royal  velvet  cape — 

But  such  a  creature  I  would  never  be — 
Ask  me  no  more. 

MR.  R.  BROWNING: 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  Cow 
Is  it  can  throw, 

Somewhere,  somehow, 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue 
(That  makes  purple,  'tis  said). 

I  would  fain  see,  too, 
This  Cow  that  darkles  the  red  and  the  blue! 

MR.  j.  KEATS: 

A  cow  of  purple  is  a  joy  forever. 

Its  loveliness  increases.    I  have  never 

Seen  this  phenomenon.    Yet  ever  keep 

A  brave  lookout;  lest  I  should  be  asleep 

When  she  comes  by.    For,  though  I  would  not  be 

one, 

I've  oft  imagined  'twould  be  joy  to  see  one. 

4 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 
MR.  D.  G.  ROSSETTi: 

The  Purple  Cow  strayed  in  the  glade; 

(Oh,  my  soul !  but  the  milk  is  blue !) 
She  strayed  and  strayed  and  strayed  and  strayed 

(And  I  wail  and  I  cry  Wa-hoo !) 

I've  never  seen  her — nay,  not  I; 

(Oh,  my  soul !  but  the  milk  is  blue !) 
Yet  were  I  that  Cow  I  should  want  to  die. 

(And  I  wail  and  I  cry  Wa-hoo!) 

But  in  vain  my  tears  I  strew. 

9 

MR.  T.  B.  ALDRICH  : 

Somewhere  in  some  faked  nature  place, 
In  Wonderland,  in  Nonsense  Land, 

Two  darkling  shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"And  who  are  you?"  said  each  to  each; 

"Tell  me  your  title,  anyhow." 
One  said,  "I  am  the  Papal  Bull," 

"And  I  the  Purple  Cow." 

MR.  E.  ALLAN   POEt 

Open  then  I  flung  a  shutter, 
And,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  Purple  Cow  which  gayly  tripped 

around  my  floor. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  she, 
Not  a  moment  stopped  or  stayed  she, 
5 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

But  with  mien  of  chorus  lady  perched  herself  above 

my  door. 
On  a  dusty  bust  of  Dante  perched  and  sat  above  my 

door. 

And  that  Purple  Cow  unflitting 

Still  is  sitting — still  is  sitting 

On  that  dusty  bust  of  Dante  just  above  my  chamber 
door, 

And  her  horns  have  all  the  seeming 

Of  a  demon's  that  is  screaming, 

And  the  arc-light  o'er  her  streaming 
Casts  her  shadow  on  the  floor. 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  pool  of  Purple  Shadow 

on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  Nevermore ! 

MR.  H.  LONGFELLOW: 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wing  of  night 
As  ballast  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  air-ship  in  its  flight. 

I  dream  of  a  purple  creature 

Which  is  not  as  kine  are  now ; 
And  resembles  cattle  only 

As  Cowper  resembles  a  cow. 

Such  cows  have  power  to  quiet 
Our  restless  thoughts  and  rude; 

They  come  like  the  Benedictine 
That  follows  after  food. 
6 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB  i 

MR.  A.  SWINBURNE: 

Oh,  Cow  of  rare  rapturous  vision, 

Oh,  purple,  impalpable  Cow, 
Do  you  browse  in  a  Dream  Field  Elysian, 

Are  you  purpling  pleasantly  now? 
By  the  side  of  wan  waves  do  you  languish? 

Or  in  the  lithe  lush  of  the  grove? 
While  vainly  I  search  in  my  anguish, 

0  Bovine  of  mauve! 

Despair  in  my  bosom  is  sighing, 
Hope's  star  has  sunk  sadly  to  rest ; 

Though  cows  of  rare  sorts  I  am  buying, 
Not  one  breathes  a  balm  to  my  breast. 

Oh,  rapturous  rose-crowned  occasion, 
When  I  such  a  glory  might  see! 

But  a  cow  of  a  purple  persuasion 

1  never  would  be. 

MR.  F.  D.  SHERMAN: 

I'd  love  to  see 

A  Purple  Cow, 
Oh,  Goodness  me! 
I'd  love  to  see 
But  not  to  be 

One.    Anyhow, 
I'd  love  to  see 

A  Purple  Cow. 

MR.  B.  CARMAN: 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these, 
A  Purple  Cow  that  no  one  sees, 
7 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

A  grove  of  green  and  a  sky  of  blue, 
And  never  a  hope  that  cow  to  view. 
But  a  firm  conviction  deep  in  me 
That  cow  I  would  rather  be  than  see. 
Though,  alack-a-day,  there  be  times  enow, 
When  I  see  pink  snakes  and  a  Purple  Cow. 

MR.  H.  c.  BUNNER: 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  cows  are  purple? 
Ah,  woe  is  me !    I  never  hope 
On  such  a  sight  my  eyes  to  ope ; 
But,  as  I  sing  in  merry  glee 
Along  the  road  to  Arcady, 
Perchance  full  soon  I  may  espy 
A  Purple  Cow  come  dancing  by. 

Heigho!    I  then  shall  see  one. 
Her  horns  bedecked  with  ribbons  gay, 
And  garlanded  with  rosy  may, — 

A  tricksy  sight.    Still  I  must  say 

I'd  rather  see  than  be  one. 

MR.  R.  L.  STEVENSON  t 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 
And  hunt  that  cow  by  lantern  light; 
In  summer  quite  the  other  way, 
I  seek  a  Purple  Cow  by  day. 
And  does  it  not  seem  strange  to  you, 
I  can't  find  cows  of  purple  hue? 
But  I  can  tell  you,  anyhow, 
I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  Purple  Cow. 
8 


THE   RE-ECHO   CLUB 

MR.  R.  KIPLING: 

In  the  old  ten-acre  pasture, 

Lookin'  eastward  toward  a  tree, 

There's  a  Purple  Cow  a-settin' 

And  I  know  she  thinks  of  me. 

For  the  wind  is  in  the  gum-tree, 
And  the  hay  is  in  the  mow, 

And  the  cow-bells  are  a-calling 
"Come  and  see  a  Purple  Cow!" 

But  I  am  not  going  now, 

Not  at  present,  anyhow, 
For  I  am  not  fond  of  purple,  and 

I  can't  abide  a  cow ; 
No,  I  shall  not  go  to-day, 
Where  the  Purple  Cattle  play, 
Though  I  think  I'd  rather  see  one 

Than  to  be  one,  anyhow. 

MR.  o.  HERFORD: 

Children,  observe  the  Purple  Cow, 
You  cannot  see  her,  anyhow ; 
And,  little  ones,  you  need  not  hope 
Your  eyes  will  e'er  attain  such  scope. 
But  if  you  ever  have  a  choice 
To  be,  or  see,  lift  up  your  voice 
And  choose  to  see.    For  surely  you 
Don't  want  to  browse  around  and  moo. 

MR.  s.  CRANE: 

Once  a  man  said, 
I  never  saw  a  Purple  Cow ; 

9 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Again  he  spoke, 

I  never  hope  to  see  one. 

Then  all  the  people  said, 

How  noble  his  humble-mindedness ! 

How  glorious  his  meek  resignation! 

Now  this  is  the  strange  part — 

The  man  has  seen  hundreds  of  purple  cows, 

Ay,  thousands, 

But  the  man  was  color  blind, 

And  the  cows  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  reddish  brown. 

MR.   D.    G.    ROSSETTi: 

(Second  Attempt.) 

The  blessed  Purple  Cow  leaned  out 

From  a  pasture  lot  at  even 
One  horn  was  sixteen  inches  long, 

The  other  just  eleven. 
She  had  a  ruminative  face, 

And  the  teeth  in  her  head  were  seven. 
She  gazed  and  listened,  then  she  said 

(Less  sad  of  speech  than  queer), 
"Nobody  seems  to  notice  me, 

None  knows  that  I  am  here. 
And  no  one  wishes  to  be  me!" 

She  wept.    (I  heard  a  tear.) 

MR.  A.  c.  SWINBURNE: 
(Second  Attempt.) 

Only  in  dim,  drowsy  depths  of  a 
dream  do  I  dare  to  delight 

in  deliciously  dreaming 
Cows  there  may  be  of  a  passionate 
10 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

purple,— cows  6f  a  violent 

violet-hue ; 

Ne'er  have  I  seen  such  a  sight,  I  am 
certain  it  is  but  a  demi- 
delirious  dreaming — 
Ne'er  may  I  happily  harbor 
a  hesitant  hope  in  my 
heart  that  my  dream 

may  come  true. 
Sad  is  my  soul,  and  my  senses 
are  sobbing,  so  strong 
is  my  strenuous  spirit 

to  see  one. 

Dolefully,  drearily  doomed 
to  despair  as  warily, 

wearily  watching  I  wait ; 
Thoughts  thickly  thronging  are  thrilling 
and  throbbing ;  to  see  is  a 

glorious  gain — but  to  be  one! 
That  were  a  darker  and 
direfuller  destiny,  that 
were  a  fearfuller, 
frightfuller  fate. 


zi 


AT  the  second  meeting  of  the  Re-Echo  Club, 
some  of  whose  proceedings  have  already  been 
chronicled  in  these  pages,  the  question  arose  wheth- 
er the  poet  was  at  his  best  who  gave  to  the  world 
the  classic  poem  about  The  Little  Girl : 


"There  was  a  little  girl 

And  she  had  a  little  curl 
Right  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 

And  when  she  was  good, 

She  was  very,  very  good, 
And  when  she  was  bad  she  was  horrid!" 


Some  members  held  that  poets  had  at  times 
risen  to  sublimer  poetic  flights  than  this,  while 
others  contended  that  the  clear-cut  decision  of 
thought  it  expressed  placed  the  poem  above  more 
elaborate  works. 

When  those  who  criticised  it  were  invited  them- 
selves to  treat  the  same  theme  in  more  worthy  fash- 
ion, they  willingly  enough  agreed,  and  the  results 
here  subjoined  were  spread  upon  the  minutes  of  the 
club. 

With  a  lady-like  air  of  reserve  tempered  by  self- 
respect,  Mrs.  Felicia  Hemans  presented  her  version : 

12 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

The  Marcel  waves  dash'd  high 

Where  the  puffs  and  frizzes  crossed; 

And  just  above  a  roguish  eye 
A  little  curl  was  tossed. 

And  that  little  curl  hung  down 

O'er  a  brow  like  a  holy  saint; 
Her  goodness  was  beyond  renown, 

And  yet — there  was  a  taint. 

Ay,  call  it  deadly  sin, 

The  temper  that  she  had ; 
But  that  Little  Girl  just  gloried  in 

Freedom  to  be  real  bad! 

Robert  Browning  gave  the  subject  much  thought 
and  responded  at  length: 

Who  will  may  hear  the  poet's  story  told. 
His  story?    Who  believes  me  shall  behold 
The  Little  Girl,  tricked  out  with  ringolet, 
Or  fringe,  or  pompadour,  or  what  you  will, 
Switch,  bang,  rat,  puff — odzooks,  man!   I  know  not 
What  women  call  the  hanks  o'  hair  they  wear ! 
But  that  same  curl,  beau-catcher,  love-lock,  frizz. 
(Perchance  hot-ironed — perchance  'twas  bandolined ; 
Mayhap  those  rubber  squirmers  gave  it  shape — 
I  wot  not.)    But  that  corkscrew  of  a  curl 
Hung  plumb,  true,  straight,  accurate,  at  mid-brow, 
Nor  swerved  a  hair's  breadth  to  the  right  or  left. 
Aught  of  her  other  tresses  none  may  know. 
Now  go  we  straitly  on.    And  undertake 
To  sound  the  humor  of  the  Little  Girl. 

13 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Ha!   what's  the  note?    Hark  here.    When  she  was 

good, 

She  was  seraphic ;  hypersuperfine. 
So  good  she  made  the  saints  seem  scalawags ; 
An  angel  child;  a  paramaragon. 
Halt!    Turn!    When  she  elected  to  be  bad, 
Black  fails  to  paint  the  depths  of  ignomin, 
The  fearsome  sins,  the  crimes  unspeakable, 
The  deep  abysses  of  her  evilment. 
Hist!   Tell  't  wi'  bated  breath!    One  day  she  let 
A  rosy  tongue-tip  from  red  lips  peep  forth! 
Can  viciousness  cap  that?    Horrid's  the  word. 
Yet  there  she  is.    There  is  that  Little  Girl, 
Her  goodness  and  her  badness,  side  by  side, 
Like  bacon,  streak  o'  fat  and  streak  o'  lean. 
Ah,  Fatalist,  she  must  be  ever  so. 

Mr.  E.  A.  Poe  declared  that  he  wrote  his  lines 
without  any  trouble  at  all,  as  he  used  to  know  the 
Little  Girl  personally: 

'Twas  not  very  many  years  ago, 

At  Seahurst-By-The-Sea, 
A  little  girl  had  a  little  curl— 

Her  name  was  Annabel  Lee. 
And  right  in  the  middle  of  Annabel's  brow 

That  curl  would  always  be. 

She  was  so  good,  oh,  she  was  so  good 

At  Seahurst-By-The-Sea! 
She  was  good  with  a  goodness  more  than  good, 

Was  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
With  such  goodness  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  of  me. 

14 


THE   RE-ECHO   CLUB 

But  her  badness  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  good, 

Like  many  far  older  than  she, 

Like  many  far  wiser  than  she ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea 
Can  ever  dissever  the  good  from  the  bad 

In  the  soul  of  Annabel  Lee, 

The  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

Then  Mr.  Stevenson  went  out  into  his  own  garden 
and  plucked  this : 

In  winter,  I  go  up  at  night 
And  curl  that  curl  by  candle-light ; 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 
I  have  to  curl  it  twice  a  day. 

When  I  am  good,  I  seem  to  be 
As  good  as  peaches  on  the  tree ; 
But  when  I'm  bad  I've  awful  ways, 
I'm  horrid,  everybody  says. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
I  have  to  choose  between  the  two? 
When  I'm  not  happy,  good  and  glad, 
I  have  to  be  so  awful  bad! 

Mr.  Kipling  took  a  real  interest  in  the  work  and 
produced  the  following: 

"What  is  the  gas-stove  going  for?" 

Asked  Files-On-Parade. 
"To  curl  my  hair,  to  curl  my  hair?" 

His  Little  Sister  said. 

15 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

"What  makes  you  curl  so  tight,  so  tight?" 

Asked  Files-On-Parade. 
"I'm  thinkin'  'twill  be  damp  to-night," 

His  Little  Sister  said. 

"For  you  know  that  when  I'm  good,  I'm  just  as  good 

as  I  can  be. 
And  when  I'm  bad,  there's  nobody  can  be  as  bad  as 

me. 
So  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  be  very  good  to-night,  because, 

you  see, 
I'm  thinkin'  I'll  be  horrid  in  the  morning." 

Mr.  Hood  was  in  a  reminiscent  mood,  so  he  looked 
backward : 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

That  curl  I  used  to  wear; 
It  cost  a  dollar  ninety-eight 

(It  was  the  best  of  hair). 
It  always  stayed  right  in  its  place, 

It  never  went  astray; 
But  now,  I  sometimes  wish  the  wind 

Had  blown  that  curl  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

How  good  I  used  to  be ; 
Why,  St.  Cecelia  at  her  best 

Was  not  as  good  as  me. 
I  never  tore  my  pinafore, 

Or  got  my  slippers  wet ; 
I  let  my  brother  steal  my  cake — 

That  boy  is  living  yet ! 
16 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

How  bad  I've  sometimes  been ; 
How  all  my  little  childish  tricks 

Were  counted  fearful  sin. 
I'm  glad  I  cut  up,  anyway, 

But  still  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I  could  have  played  worse  pranks 

If  I  had  been  a  boy. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  took  it  quietly: 

I  met  a  gentle  Little  Girl, 

She  was  sixteen  years,  she  said; 

Her  hair  was  thick ;  that  same  old  curl 
Was  hanging  from  her  head. 

"You're  very,  very  good,  you  say; 

And  you  look  good  to  me, 
Yet  you  are  bad.    Tell  me,  I  pray, 

Sweet  maid,  how  that  may  be?" 

Then  did  the  Little  Girl  reply 

(The  curl  bobbed  on  her  forehead), 

"When  I  am  good,  I'm  good  as  pie, 
And  when  I'm  bad,  I'm  horrid." 


AT  the  next  meeting  of  the  Re-Echo  Club  there 
was  achieved  a  vindication  of  the  limerick. 
"It  has  been  said,"  remarked  the  President  of  the 
Re-Echo  Club,  "by  ignorant  and  undiscerning 
would-be  critics  that  the  Limerick  is  not  among  the 
classic  and  best  forms  of  poetry,  and,  indeed,  some 
have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  it  is  not  poetry  at 
all. 

"A  brief  consideration  of  its  claims  to  preeminence 
among  recognized  forms  of  verse  will  soon  convince 
any  intelligent  reader  of  its  superlative  worth  and 
beauty. 

"As  a  proof  of  this,  let  us  consider  the  following 
Limerick,  which  in  the  opinion  of  connoisseurs  is 
the  best  one  ever  written: 

There  was  a  young  lady  of  Niger, 
Who  smiled  as  she  rode  on  a  tiger ; 

They  came  back  from  the  ride 

» 

With  the  lady  inside, 
And  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  tiger. 

Now  let  us  compare  this  exquisite  bit  of  real 
poesy  with  what  Chaucer  has  written  on  the  same 

theme: 

18 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

A  mayde  ther  ben,  in  Niger  born  and  bredde ; 
Hire  merye  smyle  went  neere  aboute  hire  hedde. 
Uponne  a  beeste  shee  rood,  a  tyger  gaye, 
And  sikerly  shee  laughen  on  hire  waye. 

Anon,  as  it  bifel,  bak  from  the  ryde 
Ther  came,  his  sadel  hangen  doone  bisyde, 
The  tyger.    On  his  countenaunce  the  whyle 
Ther  ben  behelde  a  gladnesse  and  a  smyle. 

Again,   Austin  Dobson  chose  to  throw  off  the 
thing  in  triolet  form : 

She  went  for  a  ride, 

That  young  lady  of  Niger; 
Her  smile  was  quite  wide 
As  she  went  for  a  ride ; 
But  she  came  back  inside, 

With  the  smile  on  the  tiger! 
She  went  for  a  ride, 

That  young  lady  of  Niger. 

Rossetti,  with  his  inability  to  refrain  from  refrains, 
turned  out  this: 

In  Niger  dwelt  a  lady  fair, 

(Bacon  and  eggs  and  a  bar  o'  soap !) 

Who  smiled  'neath  tangles  of  her  hair, 
As  her  steed  began  his  steady  lope. 
(You  like  this  style,  I  hope !) 

On  and  on  they  sped  and  on, 

(Bacon  and  eggs  and  a  bar  o*  soap !) 
19 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

On  and  on  and  on  and  on; 

(You  see  I've  not  much  scope.) 

E'en  ere  they  loped  the  second  mile, 
The  tiger  'gan  his  mouth  to  ope ; 

Anon  he  halted  for  a  while ; 

Then  went  on  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
(Bacon  and  eggs  and  a  bar  o'  soap !) 

Omar  looked  at  the  situation  philosophically,  and 
summed  up  his  views  in  such  characteristic  lines  as 
these. 

Why  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  Dust  aside 
And,  smiling,  on  a  Tiger  blithely  ride, 

Were't  not  a  Shame — were't  not  a  Shame  for  him 
In  stupid  Niger  tamely  to  abide? 

Strange,  is  it  not?  that,  of  the  Myriads  who 
Before  us  rode  the  Sandy  Desert  through, 

Not  one  returns  to  tell  us  of  the  Road 
Which  to  discover  we  ride  smiling,  too. 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  Row 
Of  Magic  Niger-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Smile-illumined  Tiger  held 
•  In  lyiidnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show. 

Tennyson  saw  a  dramatic  opportunity,  and  gloried 
in  his  chance,  thus: 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

On  the  big  tiger, 
Rode  with  a  smiling  face 

The  lady  of  Niger. 
20 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Mad  rushed  the  noble  steed, 
Smiled  she  and  took  no  heed ; 
Smiled  at  the  breakneck  speed 
Of  the  big  tiger. 

Boldly  they  plunged  and  swayed, 
Fearlessly  and  unafraid, — 
Tiger  and  lovely  maid, 

Fair  and  beguiling; 
Flashed  she  her  sunny  smiles, 
Flash'd  o'er  the  sunlit  miles; 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  same  smiling ! 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made, 

Riding  from  Niger ! 
Honor  the  ride  they  made ! 
Honor  the  smiles  displayed, 

Lady  and  Tiger! 

Kipling,  of  course,  seized  the  theme  for  a  fine  and 
stirring  Barrack-Room  Ballad: 

tx 
"What  is  the  lady  smiling  for?" 

Said  Files-on-Parade.  \o<^*'> 

"She's  going  for  a  tiger  ride," 

The  Color-Sergeant  said; 
"What  makes  her  smile  so  gay,  so  gay?" 

Said  Files-on-Parade; 
"She  likes  to  go  for  tiger  rides," 

The  Color-Sergeant  said. 


21 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

"For  she's  riding  on  the  tiger,  you  can  see  his  state- 
ly stride; 
When  they're  returning  home  again,  she'll  take  a 

place  inside; 
And  on  the  tiger's  face  will  be  the  smile  so  bland 

and  wide, 
But  she's  riding  on  the  tiger  in  the  morning." 

Browning  was  pleased  with  the  subject  and  did 
the  best  he  could  with  it,  along  these  lines : 

THE   LAST   RIDE  TOGETHER: 

(The  Tiger  speaks.) 

I  said,  "Then,  Dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  your  fate  you  know, 
Since  nothing  all  your  smile  avails, 
Since  all  your  life  seems  meant  for  fails, 

Henceforth  you  ride  inside." 
Who  knows  what's  best?    Ah,  who  can  tell? 
I  loved  the  lady.    Therefore, — well, — 
I  shuddered.    Yet  it  had  to  be. 
And  so  together,  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride,  forever  ride. 

Swinburne  spread  himself  thusly: 

O  marvellous,  mystical  maiden, 

With  the  way  of  the  wind  on  the  wing; 
Low  laughter  thy  lithe  lips  hath  laden, 

Thy  smile  is  a  Song  of  the  Spring. 
O  typical,  tropical  tiger, 

With  wicked  and  wheedlesome  wiles ; 
O  lovely  lost  lady  of  Niger, 

Our  Lady  of  Smiles. 

22 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  put  it  this  way: 

See  the  lady  with  a  smile, 
Sunny  smile ! 
Hear  her  gaysome,  gleesome  giggle  as  she  rides 

around  in  style! 
How  the  merry  laughter  trips 
From  her  red  and  rosy  lips, 
As  she  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles, 

smiles, 
While  she  rides  along  the  dusty,  desert  miles. 

See  the  tiger  with  a  smile, 
Happy  smile! 
If  such  a  smile  means  happiness,  he's  happy  quite 

a  pile; 
How  contentedly  he  chuckles  as  he  trots  along  the 

miles. 

Oh,  he  doesn't  growl  or  groan 
As  he  ambles  on  alone, 
But  he  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles,  smiles, 

smiles, 
As  he  homeward  goes  along  the  desert  miles. 

And  Longfellow  gave  it  his  beautiful  and  clever 
"Hiawatha"  setting: 

Oh,  the  fair  and  lovely  lady; 
Oh,  the  sweet  and  winsome  lady; 
With  a  smile  of  gentle  goodness 
Like  the  lovely  Laughing  Water. 
Oh,  the  day  the  lovely  lady 
Went  to  ride  upon  a  tiger. 
Came  the  tiger,  back  returning, 
23 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Homeward  through  the  dusky  twilight ; 
,Ever  slower,  slower,  slower,     . 
Walked  the  tiger  o'er  the  landscape ; 
Ever  wider,  wider,  wider, 
Spread  the  smile  o'er  all  his  features. 

"And  so,"  said  the  President,  "after  numerous  ex- 
amples and  careful  consideration  of  this  matter,  we 
are  led  to  the  conclusion  that  for  certain  propositions 
the  Limerick  is  the  best  and  indeed  the  only  proper 
vehicle  of  expression." 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

IT  was  at  the  very  next  meeting  that  the  President 
of  the  club  gave  the  members  another  Limerick 
for  their  consideration.    The  Limerick  was  anony- 
mous, but  the  Re-Echoes  were  not.    Here  they  are: 

THE  LIMERICK: 

A  scholarly  person  named  Finck 
Went  mad  in  the  effort  to  think 

Which  were  graver  misplaced, 

To  dip  pen  in  his  paste, 
Or  dip  his  paste-brush  in  the  ink. 

OMAR  KHAYYAM'S  VERSION  : 

Stay,  fellow  traveller,  let  us  stop  and  think, 
Pause  and  reflect  on  the  abysmal  brink ; 

Say  would  you  rather  thrust  your  pen  in  paste, 
Or  dip  your  paste-brush  carelessly  in  ink? 

RUDYARD  KIPLING'S  VERSION  : 

Here  is  a  theme  that  is  worthy  of  our  cognizance, 
A  theme  of  great  importance  and  a  question  for 

your  ken; 

Would  you  rather — stop  and  think  well — 
Dip  your  paste-brush  in  your  ink-well, 

Or  in  your  pesky  pas  ting-pot  immerse  your  inky 
pen? 

WALT  WHITMAN'S  VERSION  : 


Hail,  Camerados ! 
I  salute  you, 

25 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Also  I  salute  the  sewing-machine,  and  the  flour-bar- 
rel, and  the  feather  duster. 
What  is  an  aborigine,  anyhow? 
I  see  a  paste-pot. 
Ay,  and  a  well  of  ink. 
Well,  well! 
Which  shall  I  do? 
Ah,  the  immortal  fog! 
What  am  I  myself 
But  a  meteor 
In  a  fog? 

CHAUCER'S  VERSION  : 

A  mayde  ther  ben,  a  wordy  one  and  wyse, 
Who  wore  a  paire  of  gogles  on  her  eyes. 
O'er  theemes  of  depest  thogt  her  braine  she  werked, 
Nor  ever  any  knoty  problemme  sherked. 
Yette  when  they  askt  her  if  she'd  rather  sinke 
Her  penne  in  payste,  or  eke  her  brushe  in  inke, 
"Ah,"  quo*  the  canny  mayde,  "now  wit  ye  wel, 
I'm  wyse  enow  to  know — too  wyse  to  tel." 

HENRY  JAMES'S  VERSION: 

She  luminously  wavered,  and  I  tentatively  in- 
ferred that  she  would  soon  perfectly  reconsider  her 
not  altogether  unobvious  course.  Furiously,  tho' 
with  a  tender,  ebbing  similitude,  across  her  mental 
consciousness  stole  a  reculmination  of  all  the  truths 
she  had  ever  known  concerning,  or  even  remotely 
relating  to,  the  not  easily  fathomed  qualities  of 
paste  and  ink.  So  she  stood,  focused  in  an  intensity 
of  soul-quivers,  and  I,  all  unrelenting,  waited, 
though  of  a  dim  uncertainty  whether,  after  all,  it 
might  not  be  only  a  dubitant  problem. 

26 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

SWINBURNE'S  VERSION: 

Shall  I  dip,  shall  I  dip  it,  Dolores, 
This  luminous  paste-brush  of  thine? 

Shall  I  sully  its  white-breasted  glories, 
Its  fair,  foam-flecked  figure  divine? 

O  shall  I — abstracted,  unheeding — 
Swish  swirling  this  pen  in  my  haste, 

And,  deaf  to  thy  pitiful  pleading, 
Just  jab  it  in  paste? 

STEPHEN  CRANE'S  VERSION  : 

I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire, 

And  I  saw 

Ranged  in  solemn  row  before  me, 

A  paste-pot  and  an  ink-pot. 

I  held  in  my  either  hand 

A  pen  and  a  brush. 

Ay,  a  pen  and  a  brush. 

Now  this  is  the  strange  part ; 

I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire, 

Glad,  exultant, 

Because 

The  choice  was  mine! 

Ay,  mine! 

As  I  stood  upon  a  church  spire, 

A  slender,  pointed  spire. 


27 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

PERHAPS  one  of  the  most  enjoyable  occasions 
was  the  night  when  the  members  of  the  Re- 
Echo  Club  discussed  the  merits  of  the  classic  poem : 

Peter,  Peter,  Pumpkin  Eater, 
Had  a  wife  and  couldn't  keep  her ; 
Put  her  in  a  pumpkin  shell, 
And  there  he  kept  her  very  well. 

In  many  ways  this  historic  narrative  called  forth 
admiration.  One  must  admit  Peter's  great  strength 
of  character,  his  power  of  quick  decision,  and  imme- 
diate achievement.  Some  held  that  his  inability  to 
retain  the  lady's  affection  in  the  first  place  argued 
a  defect  in  his  nature;  but  remembering  the  lady's 
youth  and  beauty  (implied  by  the  spirit  of  the  whole 
poem),  they  could  only  reiterate  their  appreciation 
of  the  way  he  conquered  circumstances,  and  proved 
himself  master  of  his  fate,  and  captain  of  his  soul! 
Truly,  the  Pumpkin-Eaters  must  have  been  a  force- 
ful race,  able  to  defend  their  rights  and  rule  their 
people. 

The  Poets  at  their  symposium  unanimously  felt 
that  the  style  of  the  poem,  though  hardly  to  be 
called  crude,  was  a  little  bare,  and  they  took  up  with 
pleasure  the  somewhat  arduous  task  of  rewriting  it. 

Mr.  Ed  Poe  opined  that  there  was  lack  of  atmos- 
phere, and  that  the  facts  of  the  narrative  called  for 
a  more  impressive  setting.  He  therefore  offered: 

The  skies,  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 
The  lady  was  shivering  with  fear ; 
Her  shoulders  were  shud'ring  with  fear, 
28 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

On  a  dark  night  in  dismal  October, 

Of  his  most  Matrimonial  Year. 

It  was  hard  by  the  cornfield  of  Auber, 

In  the  musty  Mud  Meadows  of  Weir, 
Down  by  the  dank  frog-pond  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  cornfield  of  Weir. 

Now,  his  wife  had  a  temper  Satanic, 

And  when  Peter  roamed  here  with  his  Soul, 
Through  the  corn  with  his  conjugal  Soul, 

He  spied  a  huge  pumpkin  Titanic, 

And  he  popped  her  right  in  through  a  hole. 
Then  solemnly  sealed  up  the  hole. 

And  thus  Peter  Peter  has  kept  her 
Immured  in  Mausoleum  gloom, 
A  moist,  humid,  damp  sort  of  gloom. 

And,  though  there's  no  doubt  he  bewept  her, 
She  is  still  in  her  yellow-hued  tomb, 
Her  unhallowed,  Hallowe'en  tomb 

And  ever  since  Peter  side-stepped  her, 
He  calls  her  his  lost  Lulalume, 
His  Pumpkin-entombed  Lulalume. 

This  was  received  with  acclaim,  but  many  object- 
ed to  the  mortuary  theory. 

Mrs.  Robert  Browning  was  sure  that  Peter's  love 
for  his  wife,  though  perhaps  that  of  a  primitive  man, 
was  of  the  true  Portuguese  stamp,  and  with  this 
view  composed  the  following  pleasing  Sonnet : 

How  do  I  keep  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  bar  up  every  breadth  and  depth  and  height 

29 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

My  hands  can  reach,  while  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  bolts  that  stick  and  hasps  that  will  not  raise. 

I  keep  thee  from  the  public's  idle  gaze, 

I  keep  thee  in,  by  sun  or  candle  light. 

I  keep  thee,  rude,  as  women  strive  for  Right. 

I  keep  thee  boldly,  as  they  seek  for  praise, 

I  keep  thee  with  more  effort  than  I'd  use 

To  keep  a  dry-goods  shop  or  big  hotel. 

I  keep  thee  with  a  power  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  that  last  cook.    I'll  keep  thee  down  the  well, 

Or  up  the  chimney-place !    Or  if  I  choose, 

I  shall  but  keep  thee  in  a  Pumpkin  shell. 

This  was,  of  course,  meritorious,  though  some- 
what suggestive  of  the  cave-men,  who,  we  have 
never  been  told,  were  Pumpkin  Eaters. 

Austin  Dobson's  version  was  really  more  ladylike : 

BALLADE  OF  A  PUMPKIN  I 

Golden-skinned,  delicate,  bright, 

Wondrous  of  texture  and  hue, 
Bathed  in  a  soft,  sunny  light, 

Pearled  with  a  silvery  dew. 

Fair  as  a  flower  to  the  view, 
Ripened  by  summer's  soft  heat, 

Basking  beneath  Heaven's  blue, — 
This  is  the  Pumpkin  of  Pete. 

Peter  consumed  day  and  night, 

Pumpkin  in  pie  or  in  stew ; 
Hinted  to  Cook  that  she  might 

Can  it  for  winter  use,  too. 
30 


THE   RE-ECHO   CLUB 

Pumpkin  croquettes,  not  a  few, 
Peter  would  happily  eat ; 

Knowing  content  would  ensue, — 
This  is  the  Pumpkin  of  Pete. 

Everything  went  along  right, 

Just  as  all  things  ought  to  do; 
Till  Peter, — unfortunate  wight, — 

Married  a  girl  that  he  knew. 

Each  day  he  had  to  pursue 
His  runaway  Bride  down  the  street,  — 

So  her  into  prison  he  threw, — 
This  is  the  Pumpkin  of  Pete. 

L'ENVOI 

Lady,  a  sad  lot,  'tis  true, 

Staying  your  wandering  feet; 
But  'tis  the  best  place  for  you, — 

This  is  the  Pumpkin  of  Pete. 

Like  the  other  women  present  Dinah  Craik  felt  the 
pathos  of  the  situation,  and  gave  vent  to  her  feelings 
in  this  tender  burst  of  song : 

Could  I  come  back  to  you,  Peter,  Peter, 
From  this  old  pumpkin  that  I  hate ; 

I  would  be  so  tender,  so  loving,  Peter, — 
Peter,  Peter,  gracious  and  great. 

You  were  not  half  worthy  of  me,  Peter, 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  I ; 
Now  all  men  beside  are  not  in  it,  Peter,— = 

Peter,  Peter,  I  feel  like  a  pie. 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Peter,  Peter, 

Let  me  out  of  this  Pumpkin,  do ; 
Peter,  my  beautiful  Pumpkin  Eater, 

Peter,  Peter,  tender  and  true. 

Mr.  Hogg  took  his  own  graceful  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, thus: 

Lady  of  wandering, 

Blithesome,  meandering, 
Sweet  was  thy  flitting  o'er  moorland  and  lea; 

Emblem  of  restlessness, 

Blest  be  thy  dwelling  place, 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  Pumpkin  with  thee. 

Peter,  though  bland  and  good, 

Never  thee  understood, 
Or  he  had  known  how  thy  nature  was  free; 

Goddess  of  fickleness, 

Blest  be  thy  dwelling  place, 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  Pumpkin  with  thee. 

Mr.  Kipling  grasped  at  the  occasion  for  a  ballad 
in  his  best  vein.  The  plot  of  the  story  aroused  his 
old-time  enthusiasm,  and  he  transplanted  the  pump- 
kin eater  and  his  wife  to  the  scenes  of  his  earlier 
powers: 

In  a  great  big  Mammoth  pumpkin 

Lookin'  eastward  to  the  sea, 
There's  a  wife  of  mine  a-settin' 

And  I  know  she's  mad  at  me. 
For  I  hear  her  calling,  "Peter!" 

With  a  wild  hysteric  shout: 
32 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

"Come  you  back,  you  Punkin  Eater,— 
Come  you  back  and  let  me  out !" 
For  she's  in  a  punkin  shell, 
I  have  locked  her  in  her  cell ; 
But  it  really  is  a  comfy,  well-constructed  punkin 

shell; 

And  there  she'll  have  to  dwell, 
For  she  didn't  treat  me  well, 

So  I  put  her  in  the  punkin  and  I've  kept  her  very 
well. 

Algernon  Swinburne  was  also  in  one  of  his  early 
moods,  and  as  a  result  he  wove  the  story  into  this 
exquisite  fabric  of  words: 

IN  THE  PUMPKIN 

Leave  go  my  hands.    Let  me  catch  breath  and  see, 
What  is  this  confine  either  side  of  me? 

Green  pumpkin  vines  about  me  coil  and  crawl, 
Seen  sidelong,  like  a  'possum  in  a  tree, — 

Ah  me,  ah  me,  that  pumpkins  are  so  small ! 

Oh,  my  fair  love,  I  charge  thee,  let  me  out 
From  this  gold  lush  encircling  me  about ; 

I  turn  and  only  meet  a  pumpkin  wall. 
The  crescent  moon  shines  slim, — but  I  am  stout, — 

Ah  me,  ah  me,  that  pumpkins  are  so  small! 

Pumpkin    seeds    like    cold    sea    blooms    bring    me 

dreams ; 

Ah,  Pete, — too  sweet  to  me, — My  Pete,  it  seems 
Love  like  a  Pumpkin  holds  me  in  its  thrall ; 
33 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

And  overhead  a  writhen  shadow  gleams, — 
Ah  me,  ah  me,  that  pumpkins  are  so  small! 

This  intense  poesy  thrilled  the  heavens,  and  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  relief  to  their  throbbing  souls  that 
they  listened  to  Mr.  Bret  Harte's  contribution : 

Which  I  wish  to  remark, 

That  the  lady  was  plain; 
And  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain 
She  had  predilections  peculiar, 

And  drove  Peter  nearly  insane. 

Far  off,  anywhere, 

She  wandered  each  day ; 
And  though  Peter  would  swear, 

The  lady  would  stray; 
And  whenever  he  thought  he  had  got  her, 

She  was  sure  to  be  rambling  away. 

Said  Peter,  "My  Wife, 

Hereafter  you  dwell 
For  the  rest  of  your  life 

In  a  big  Pumpkin  Shell." 
He  popped  her  in  one  that  was  handy, 

And  since  then  he's  kept  her  quite  well. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

Though  the  lady  was  plain, 
For  ways  that  are  dark 

And  tricks  that  are  vain 
A  husband  is  very  peculiar, 

And  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 
34 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Oscar  Wilde,  in  a  poetic  fervor  and  a  lily-like  ki- 
mono, recited  with  tremulous  intensity  this  master- 
piece of  his  own: 

Oh,  Peter!  Pumpkin-fed  and  proud, 
^    Ah  me ;  ah  me ! 

(Sweet  squashes,  mother!) 
Thy  woe  knells  like  a  stricken  cloud ; 
(Ah  me;  ah  me! 
Hurroo,  Hurree!) 

Lo !  vanisht  like  an  anguisht  wraith ; 

Ah  me ;  ah  me ! 

(Sweet  squashes,  mother!) 
Wan  hope  a  dolorous  musing  saith ; 

(Ah  me;  ah  me! 
Dum  diddle  dee !) 

Hist!  dare  we  soar?    The  Pumpkin  Shell! 

Ah  me ;  ah  me ! 

(Sweet  squashes,  mother!) 
Fast  and  forever !    Sooth,  'tis  well. 

(Ah  me;  ah  me! 
Faloodle  dee!) 

There  was  little  to  be  said  after  this,  so  the  meet- 
ing closed  with  a  solo  by  Lady  Arthur  Hill,  sung 
with  a  truly  touching  touch: 

In  the  pumpkin,  oh,  my  darling, 

Think  not  bitterly  of  me ; 
Though  I  went  away  in  silence, 

Though  I  couldn't  set  you  free. 
35 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

For  my  heart  was  filled  with  longing, 

For  another  piece  of  pie ; 
It  was  best  to  leave  you  there,  dear, 

Best  for  you  and  best  for  I. 


T  Christmas  the  members  of  the  Re-Echo  Club 
voiced  these  pleasant  sentiments: 

BY  MR.   TENNYSON  : 

Give  me  no  more !    Though  worsted  slippers  be 
The  proper  gift  from  woman  unto  man, 
Component  of  the  universal  plan; 

But,  oh,  too  many  hast  thou  given  me, 
Give  me  no  more ! 

BY  MR.  SHAKESPEARE  : 

To  give  or  not  to  give,  that  is  the  question ; 
Whether  'tis  nobler  on  the  whole  to  suffer 
The  old  exchange  of  trinkets,  gauds  and  kickshaws, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  this  Christmas  nuisance, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  it?    To  buy — to  give — 
No  more ;  and  by  that  gift  to  say  we  end 
The  Christmas  obligations  to  our  friends 
We  all  are  heir  to !    To  buy — to  give ; 
To  give — perchance  to  get;  ay,  there's  the  rub! 
For  in  those  bundles  gay  what  frights  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  the  ribbon  bows 
And  tissue  paper !    Who  would  gifts  receive 
Of  foolish  books  and  little  silver  traps, 
That  make  us  rather  keep  the  things  we  buy, 
Than  get  these  others  that  we  know  not  of ! 

37 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Thus  Christmas  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all, 
And,  notwithstanding  our  good  resolutions, 
Each  year  we  bandy  gifts,  and  follow  out 
The  same  old  Christmas  programme! 

BY  MR.  WORDSWORTH  I 

It  was  the  very  best  of  pies, 
All  plummy,  thick  and  sweet; 

A  pie  of  most  prodigious  size — 
And  very  few  to  eat. 

'Twas  passing  rich,  and  few  folks  know 
How  rich  mince  pie  can  be ; 

But  I  have  eaten  it — and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 

BY  MR.  DOBSON: 

When  she  gave  me  cigars  ( !) 
I  smiled  at  the  present. 

Her  eyes  were  like  stars 

When  she  gave  me  cigars. 

(I  can  stand  sudden  jars.) 
So  I  looked  very  pleasant 

When  she  gave  me  cigars  ( !) 
I  smiled  at  the  present. 

BY  MR.  SWINBURNE: 

If  you  eat  turkey  stuffing, 
And  I  eat  hot  mince  pie, 
We'll  vow  that  our  digestion 
Is  quite  beyond  all  question; 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

But  soon  we'll  quit  our  bluffing 

And  curl  us  up  to  die, 
If  you  eat  turkey  stuffing, 

And  I  eat  hot  mince  pie. 

BY  MR.  LONGFELLOW: 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  on  our  little  flat, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  a  lady's  mushroom  hat. 

I've  a  feeling  of  fullness  and  sorrow 

That  is  not  like  being  ill, 
And  resembles  colic  only 

As  a  pillow  resembles  a  pill. 

But  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  nightmares, 
And  the  food  that  was  left  to-day 

Shall  be  given  to  poor  street  Arabs, 
Or  silently  thrown  away ! 

BY  MR.  MOORE: 

'Twas  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  bawl, 
I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay; 

Whatever  I  want  most  of  all, 
I  do  not  get  it  Christmas  Day! 

BY  MISS  PROCTER  :     £/ 

Seated  one  day  at  the  table, 

I  was  stuffy  and  ill  at  ease, 
And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 

Over  the  nuts  and  cheese. 
39 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

I  know  not  what  I  had  eaten, 

Or  what  I  was  eating  then, 
But  I  struck  a  delicious  flavor 

That  I'd  like  to  taste  again. 

It  linked  all  elusive  savors 

Into  one  perfect  taste, 
Then  faded  away  on  my  palate 

Without  any  undue  haste. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 

That  one  lost  taste  so  fine, 
That  came  from  the  head  of  the  kitchen, 

And  entered  into  mine. 

BY  MR.  RILEY: 

There,  little  girl,  don't  cry ! 
You  are  awfully  broke,  I  know ; 

And  of  course  you've  spent 

Far  more  than  you  meant, 
And  lots  of  bills  you  owe. 
But  at  Christmas  time  one  has  to  buy — 
There,  little  girl,  don't  cry,  don't  cry! 


40 


THE  Re-Echo  Club  met  in  their  pleasant  rooms 
at  No.  4,  Poetic  Mews.  Spring  had  passed, 
so  their  fancy  was  lightly  turning  to  other  matters 
than  Love,  and  it  chanced  to  turn  lightly  to  the 
Cubist  Movement  in  Art. 

"Of  course,"  mused  the  President,  rolling  his  eyes 
in  an  especially  fine  frenzy,  "this  movement  will 
strike  the  poets  next." 

"Ha,"  said  Dan  Rossetti,  refraining  for  a  moment 
from  the  refrain  he  was  building,  "we  must  be  ready 
for  it." 

"We  must  advance  to  meet  it,"  said  Teddy  Poe, 
who  was  ever  of  an  adventurous  nature.  "What's 
it  all  about?" 

"The  principles  are  simple,"  observed  Rob  Brown- 
ing, glancing  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 
heaven ;  "in  fact,  it's  much  like  my  own  work  always 
has  been.  I  was  born  cubic.  You  see,  you  just  sym- 
bolize the  liquefaction  of  the  essence  of  an  idea  into 
its  emotional  constituents,  and  there  you  are !" 

"Dead  easy !"  declared  Lally  Tennyson,  who  went 
out  poeting  by  the  day,  and  knew  how  to  do  any 
kind.  "What's  the  subject?" 

"That's  just  the  point,"  said  the  President;  "pre- 
eminently and  exclusively  it's  subjective,  and  you 
must  keep  it  so.  On  no  account  allow  an  object  of 
any  kind  to  creep  in.  Now,  here's  one  of  the  Cubist 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

pictures.  They  call  it  'A  Nude  Descending  the 
Staircase.'  They  pick  names  at  random  out  of  a 
hat,  I  believe.  Take  this,  you  fellows,  and  throw  it 
into  poetry." 

"Any  rules  or  conditions?"  asked  Billy  Words- 
worth. 

"Absolutely  none.    It's  the  Ruleless  School." 

Then  the  Poets  opened  the  aspiration  valves,  ig- 
nited the  divine  spark  plugs,  and  whiz!  went  their 
motor-meters  in  a  whirring,  buzzing  melody. 

Soon  their  Cubist  emotions  were  splashed  upon 
paper,  and  the  Poets  read  with  justifiable  pride  these 
symbolic  results. 

Ally  Swinburne  tossed  off  this  poetic  gem  without 
a  bit  of  trouble. 

Square  eyelids  that  hide  like  a  jewel; 

Ten  heads, — though  I  sometimes  count  more; 
Six  mouths  that  are  cubic  and  cruel ; 

Of  mixed  arms  and  legs,  twenty-four ; 
Descending  in  Symbolic  glories 

Of  lissome  triangles  and  squares ; 
Oh,  mystic  and  subtle  Dolores, 

Our  Lady  of  Stairs. 

You  descend  like  an  army  with  banners, 

In  a  cyclone  of  wrecked  parasols. 
You  look  like  a  mob  with  mad  manners 

Or  a  roystering  row  of  Dutch  dolls. 
Oh,  Priestess  of  Cubical  passion, 

Oh,  Deification  of  Whim, 
You  seem  to  walk  down  in  the  fashion 

That  lame  lobsters  swim. 
42 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 
Here  we  have  Mr.  P.  B.  Shelley's  noble  lines : 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Nude  thou  never  wert. 
Not  from  Heaven  nor  near  it 

Breathed  thy  cubic  heart 
In  profuse  stairs  of  unintelligible  art. 

What  thou  art,  we  know  not; 

What  is  thee  most  like? 
Snakes  tied  in  a  bow-knot? 

Stovepipes  on  a  strike? 
Or  Bellevue  inmates  on  a  Suffrage  hike! 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  thy  face  to  see ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

Is  aroused  by  thee. 
Art  thou  perchance  the  sad  cube  root  of  23? 

Mr.  R.  Kipling  felt  a  flash  of  his  old  fire,  and 
threw  in  a  high  speed: 

On  an  old  symbolic  staircase, 

Looking  forty  ways  at  once ; 
There's  a  Cubist  Nude  descending, 

With  the  queerest  sort  of  stunts. 
For  the  staircase  is  a-falling, 

And  the  Noodle  seems  to  say: 
"Though  you  hear  my  soul  a-calling, 

You  can't  see  me,  anyway !" 

Oh,  this  symbol  balderdash, 
And  this  post-Impression  trash; 
43 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Can't  you  see  their  paint  a-chunkin  in  a 

hotchy-potchy  splash? 
Where  the  motives  bold  and  brash 
Of  the  Cubist  painters  clash, 

And  the  Nude  descends  like  thunder  down 
a  staircase  gone  to  smash ! 

Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti,  ever  a  sweet  singer,  warbled 
thus  tunefully: 

The  Blessed  Nude  at  eve  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  staircase  rail; 
Her  paint  was  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  in  a  pail. 
She  wore  three  bonnets  on  her  heads, 

And  seven  coats  of  mail. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  swayed 

In  circling  cubic  charms. 
And  the  pigments  of  her  painted  s©ul 

Were  loud  as  war's  alarms. 
But  the  staircase  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  fourteen  arms. 

(I  saw  her  move !)    But  soon  her  path 

Was  cubes  instead  of  spheres; 
And  then  she  disappeared  among 

The  staircase  barriers; 
And,  after  she  was  gone,  I  saw 

She'd  wept  some  large  paint  tears ! 

Mr.  R.  Browning  found  the  subject  greatly  to  his 
liking : 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Who  will  may  hear  the  Staircase  story  told ; 
All  its  blobs,  splotches,  facets, — what  you  will; 
The  vague  Nude,  compassed  murkily  about 
With  ravage  of  six  long  sad  hundred  stairs, 
Dizzily  plunging  with  tumultuous  glee! 
Whirling  the  stairdust,  hazarding  oblique, 
The  moon  safe  in  her  pocket!    See  she  treads 
Cool  citric  crystals,  fierce  pyropus  stone; 
While  crushing  sunbeams  in  a  triple  line 
Smirk  at  the  insane  roses  in  her  hair, 
And  Strojavacca,  frowning,  looks  asquint 
To  see  that  trick  of  toe, — that  dizened  heel, — 
As  she,  the  somewhat,  hangs  'twixt  naught  and 

naught. 

A  perfect  Then, — a  sub-potential  Now — 
A  facile  and  slabsided  centipede. 

And  here  is  Mr.  B.  Jonson's  little  jingle: 


Still  to  be  cubed,  still  to  be  square, 
As  you  were  going  down  a  stair ; 
Still  to  see  lurid  pigments  sluiced, — 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  deduced, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  square,  all  is  not  round. 

Give  me  a  cube,  give  me  a  line 
That  makes  a  whirling  maze  design ; 
Robes  made  of  sheet-iron,  flowing  free, — 
Such  sweet  device  more  taketh  me 
Than  masterpieces  by  old  Rubes 
Which  charm  not  eyes  attuned  to  cubes. 
45 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

And  Mr.  J.  W.  Riley  sang  in  his  usual  comfort- 
ing strain: 

There,  Little  Nude,  don't  cry ! 

You've  descended  the  stairs,  I  know; 
And  the  weird  wild  ways 
Of  the  Cubist  Jays 
Have  made  you  a  holy  show ! 
But  Post  Impressions  will  soon  pass  by. 
There  Little  Nude,  don't  cry,  don't  cry ! 

Sir  A.  Tennyson  caught  the  Cubical  spirit  neatly 
thus: 

As  the  staircase  is,  the  Nude  is ;  thou  art  painted  by 

a  freak. 
And  I  think  that  he  has  knocked  thee  to  the  middle 

of  next  week. 
He  will  paint  thee  (till  this  fashion  shall  expend  its 

foolish  force), 
Something  like  a  rabid  dog, — a  little  larger  than  a 

horse. 
Semblance?  Likeness?  Scorned  of  Cubists !  This  th' 

evangel  that  he  sings ; 
Any  picture's  crown  of  glory  is  to  look  like  other 

things ! 

So  thou  art  not  seen  descending  in  the  ordinary  way, 
But,  like  fifty  motor-cycles,  breaking  speed  laws  in 

Cathay. 

Mr.  C.  Kingsley  was  greatly  interested : 

My  Cubist  Nude,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you ; 
I  could  not  pipe  you,  howsoe'er  I  tried; 
46 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

But  ere  I  go,  I  wish  that  you  would  teach  me 
That  Staircase  Slide! 

Be  skittish,  child,  and  let  who  will  be  graceful, 
Do  whizzy  whirls  whenever  you've  the  chance ; 

And  so  make  life,  death  and  that  grand  old  staircase 
One  song  and  dance. 

Oscar  Wilde  was  moody  and  this  was  his  mood: 

Adown  the  stairs  the  Nudelet  came ; 

(Pale  pink  cats  up  a  purple  tree!) 
Hark !  to  the  smitten  cubes  of  flame ! 

Ah,  me!  Ah,  jamboree! 

Her  soul  seethed  in  emotions  sweet; 

(Pale  pink  cats  up  a  purple  tree !) 
Symbolling  like  a  torn-up  street; 

Ah,  jamboree!    Ah,  me! 

And  still  the  Nude's  soul-cubes  are  there, — 
(Pale  pink  cats  up  a  purple  tree!) 

In  writhen  glory  of  despair, — 
Ah,  me!    Ah,  Hully  Gee! 

Mr.  W.  Wordsworth  was  frankly  disdainful : 

She  trod  among  the  untrodden  maze 

Of  Cubists  on  a  spree ; 
A  Nude  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  could  see. 

A  violet  'neath  a  mossy  stone, 
Quite  hidden  from  the  eye, 
47 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

Is  far  more  easy  to  discern 
Than  that  same  Nude  to  spy. 

She  lived  unseen.    Though  some  few  fakes 

Pretended  her  to  see; 
But  if  she's  on  the  stairs,  it  makes 

No  difference  to  me. 

Mr.  Longfellow  fairly  let  himself  go: 

The  picture's  done !    And  the  staircase 

Falls  like  the  crash  of  night. 
And  the  Nude  is  wafted  downward 

Like  a  catapult  in  flight. 

There's  a  feeling  of  strange  emotion 

That  is  not  akin  to  art; 
And  resembles  a  picture  only 

As  a  Tartar  resembles  a  tart. 

Such  art  has  power  to  rouse 

Our  laughter  at  any  time, 
And  comes  like  electrocution 

That  follows  after  crime. 

And  Mr.  Bunner's  poetic  gem  has  a  charm  all  its 
own: 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

On  a  staircase  at  half-past  three ; 
And  the  way  she  was  painted  together 

Was  beautiful  for  to  see. 

She  wasn't  visible  any, 
And  the  staircase,  no  more  was  he; 
48 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 

For  it  was  a  Cubist  picture 

With  a  feeling  of  deep  skewgee. 


'Twas  a  symbol  of  soul  expression, 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be ! 

That  emotional  old,  old  lady 

On  a  staircase  at  half-past  three. 


Mr.  Wordsworth  treated  the  subject  boldly,  thus 

She  was  a  phantom  of  a  fright 
When  first  she  burst  upon  my  sight; 
A  Cubist  apparition  meant 
To  symbolize  a  Nude's  descent. 
Her  eyes  like  soft-shell  crabs  aflare 
Like  loads  of  brick  her  dusky  hair; 
And  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
As  by  one  coming  home  at  dawn. 
A  fearsome  shape,  an  image  fierce, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  to  pierce. 
I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
Like  a  symbolic  oyster  stew; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
The  paving  blocks  from  some  old  street ; 
The  staircase,  floating  fancy-free, 
With  steps  of  Cubic  liberty. 
A  perfect  lady,  nobly  built, 
Constructed  like  a  crazy  quilt. 
Or  a  volcano  on  a  spree, 
Or  herd  of  elephants  at  tea. 
The  staircase,  by  a  bombshell  wrecked, 
With  something  of  a  burst  effect. 
49 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 
What  do  you  think  of  A.  Dobson's  triolet: 

Oh,  see  the  Nude 

Descend  the  Stair ! 
Fear  not,  oh,  prude, 
To  see  the  Nude ; 
For  by  the  rood, 

She  isn't  there! 
Oh,  see  the  Nude 

Descend  the  Stair! 

Of  course,  no  one  is  a  sweeter  poetess  than  Miss 
A.  A.  Proctor: 

Seated  one  day  at  my  easel, 

I  was  hungry  and  somewhat  faint, 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  tubes  of  paint. 

I  know  not  what  I  was  drawing, 
Or  what  I  was  painting  there, 

But  I  splotched  a  Cubic  Symbol! 
Like  a  Nude  Descending  a  Stair ! 

It  flooded  the  crimson  canvas 
With  the  gush  of  a  broken  dam ; 

And  it  lay  in  sticky  masses 
Like  upset  gooseberry  jam. 

It  rioted  blazing  color, 

Like  love  ballyragging  strife ; 
It  seemed  the  loquacious  echo 

Of  our  discordant  wife. 
50 


THE   RE-ECHO   CLUB 

It  linked  all  Futurist  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  cube, 
And  broke  itself  up  into  facets 

Like  a  wreck  in  a  Hudson  Tube. 

I  seek,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 

That  vast,  symbolic  line, 
That  came  from  the  head  of  the  staircase 

And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Pab  Picasso 
Has  painted  the  thing  before, 

And  it  may  be  that  only  in  Bedlam 
I  shall  paint  that  Nude  some  more. 

And  now  the  admirers  of  Mr.  Poe  will  enjoy  this 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  made  of  squares, 
That  a  Lady  lived  whom  you  may  know 

As  the  Nude  Descending  the  Stairs, 
And  the  lady  lived  with  no  other  home, 

But  those  racketty-packetty  stairs ! 

And  the  moon  never  beams 
Without  jarring  the  seams 

Of  those  cubic  triangular  stairs; 
And  the  earth  never  quakes 
Without  bringing  the  shakes 

To  those  wigglety-wagglety  stairs. 

And  neither  the  artists  in  circles  above, 

Or  critics  who  view  the  debris, 
Can  ever  dissever  the  Nude  from  the  Stairs, 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUB 

For  both  are  so  hobble-de-gee, 
So  hobble-de-wobble-de-gee ! 

Mr.  A.  Tennyson  is  quite  frank  in  his  opinions, 
and  it  would  seem  that  he  does  not  altogether  ad- 
mire the  lady: 

Lady  Clara  Stair  de  Stair, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown. 

You  thought  to  charm  the  country's  heart 
As  you  the  staircase  tumbled  down. 

At  me  you  splashed;  but  unabashed, 
I  saw  you  in  your  paint  attired; 

You  daughter  of  a  hundred  cubes, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired! 

Lady  Clara  Stair  de  Stair, 

I  care  not  for  these  wild  etudes ; 
A  simple  Titian  in  a  frame 

Is  worth  a  hundred  Staircase  Nudes. 

Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me 

It  isn't  noble  to  be  fools ; 
Fine  arts  are  more  than  Futurists, 

And  simple  lines  than  Cubist  Schools. 


AT    one   meeting   of   The   Re-Echo    Club,   it 
chanced  that  there  was  no  one  present  but 
Omar   Khayyam.     He  had  mistaken  the 
date,  and  came  to  the  clubroom,  only  to  find  it 
empty.    Absent-mindedly,  he  picked  up  paper  and 
pen,  and,  on  leaving,  left  behind  these  additional 
Rubaiyat: 


RUBAIYAT  OF  WALL  STREET 


NOW  the  New  Hope  reviving  dying  fires, 
The  Thoughtful  Soul  to  speculate  aspires ; 
And  the  lean  Hand  of  Shylock  and  his  Kin 
Puts  out  some  Money,  which  he  gladly  Hires. 


Myself,  when  Young,  did  eagerly  Frequent 
Broker  and  Broke ;  and  heard  Great  Argument 

About  it  and  about.    Yet  evermore 
Came  out  far  Shrewder  than  when  in  I  went. 


With  them  the  Seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 
And  then  I  thought  I'd  sure  be  in  The  Know; 

And  this  is  all  the  Wisdom  that  I  gained : 
If  you  buy  High,  Quotations  will  be  Low ! 

53 


THE    RE-ECHO    CLUE 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  the  System ;  Some 
Sigh  for  the  big  Fool's  Paradise  to  come. 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Profits  go, 
Nor  heed  the  Rumble  of  a  Boston  Drum ! 

The  System  that  with  logic  absolute 
Both  Standard  Oil  and  Copper  can  confute; 

The  Sovereign  Alchemist  that  in  a  trice 
National  Lead  can  into  Gold  transmute. 

Indeed,  indeed,  at  Brokers  oft  Before 

I  swore.    But  was  I  Cautious  when  I  swore? 

And  then  Came  Gay  State  Gas  and  Rise-in-Hand ; 
I  plunged — and  Lost  some  Fifty  Thousand  More. 

And  then  that  New  Prospectus  cast  a  Spell, 

And  robbed  me  of  my  Hard-Earned  Savings.  Well, 

I  often  wonder  what  the  Magnates  buy 
One-Half  so  precious  as  the  Fools  they  Sell. 

Ah,  My  Beloved,  all  Goes  up  in  Smoke! 
Last  week  is  past  Regret;  To-day  is  a  joke; 

To-morrow — why,  to-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Seven  Thousand  Broke ! 

You  know,  My  Friends,  with  what  a  Brave  Carouse 
I  put  a  Second  Mortgage  on  my  House, 

So  I  could  Buy  a  lot  of  Copper  Shares — 
I  even  used  the  Savings  of  my  Spouse ! 

I  sent  my  Soul  down  where  the  Magnates  flock 
To  learn  the  Truth  about  some  Worthless  Stock; 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  returned  to  me, 
And  answered:   "I,  myself,  have  Bought  a  Block!" 

54 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB',    /-\  ;'.,  ;  ;'  '!,}  \-'\  \\ 

Oh,  threats  of  Curbs,  and  Hopes  of  Bucket-shops, 
Whether  Industrials,  Railroads,  Mines  or  Crops ; 

One  thing  is  Certain,  and  the  Rest  is  Lies — 
The  Stock  that  you  have  Bought  Forever  Drops ! 

And  if,  in  Vain,  down  on  the  Stubborn  Floor 
Of  the  Exchange  you  Hazard  all  your  Store, 

You  Rise  to-day — while  Crops  are  up — how  then 
To-morrow,  when  they  Fall  to  Rise  no  more? 

Waste  not  your  Money  on  Expected  Gain 
'Of  this  or  that  Provision,  Crop  or  Grain. 

Better  be  Jocund  with  Industrials, 
Than  sadden  just  Because  it  Doesn't  Rain ! 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend 
Before  we,  too,  into  the  Pit  descend! 

Dust  unto  Dust,  and  without  Dust  to  Live, 
Sans  Stock,  sans  Bonds,  sans  Credit  and  sans  Friend. 

The  Moving  Ticker  tells.    And,  having  told, 
Moves  on.    Nor  all  your  Poverty  nor  Gold 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  Raise  one-half  a  Point, 
Nor  let  you  Realize  on  what  you  Hold. 

For  I  remember  stopping  in  the  Jam 
To  watch  a  Magnate  shearing  a  Poor  Lamb. 
And  with  an  Eager  and  Excited  Tongue 
It  murmured:  "Oh,  how  Fortunate  I  am!" 

No  book  of  verses !    But  a  Ticker  Tape, 
Quotation  Record  and  a  Daily  Pape; 

A  yellow-haired  stenographer — Perhaps 
That  Wilderness  might  be  a  Good  Escape ! 

55 


THE   RE-ECHO    CLUB 


When  You  and  I  are  hid  within  the  Tomb, 
The  System  still  shall  Lure  New  Souls  to  Doom ; 

Which  of  our  Coming  and  Departure  heeds 
As  Wall  Street's  Self  should  heed  a  Lawson  Boom. 

Ah,  Love !  corild  ^bu  and  I  lay  on  the  Shelf 
This  Sorry  Scheme  of  Ill-begotten  Pelf, 

Would  we  not  Shatter  it  to  Bits,  and  Then 
Remould  a  System  just  to  suit  Ourself  ? 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAR  15  1933 


in 


.....    _  1933 

MtiDG  3019003 

*W»    «  1934 

JUH   S  ** 


^£fl  jp 


MAY 


\8 


/ 


APR 
FEB  7    Ik 


r 


395681 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


